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Back in college, I won the competition for best Elvis impersonator. And there was nothing sexy about it.

Some friends and I went costume shopping at Goodwill only a few days before the show. I found a jacket and the perfect pair of beige slacks. I grabbed the pants and ran into a stall. As I began putting the pants on, I saw remnants of a brown streak running down the inside of the crotch. My thoughts scattered -

This isn't shit, right? Should I wear them? I could wear them as a second pair of pants. I love these pants. What would Elvis do? It has to be shit. I so wanna win! I am wearing these pants.

I stepped out of the stall to show off the pants which my friends thought looked great! That's when I confessed I couldn't decide on whether I should buy them or not, since they had been soiled by the previous owner. Disgusted, my friends rejected the pants. And with a heavy head, I went home with a less fashionable pair.

Over the next two days, I practiced singing any Elvis hit I could listen to online. Blue Suede Shoes, Jailhouse Rock, Return to Sender. Elvis, resurrected in my dorm room, consumed me day and night. My suspicious mind could think of nothing else but the looming competition.

My hall-mates dressed up in makeshift 1950's sock hop attire, styled my hair and escorted me to the Student Union. When we got inside, I noticed I was the only female competitor. Once I joined the band on stage, they started performing an Elvis song I had not practiced. Instead, I vigorously shook my hips, waved my arms, and yelled,